All Fall Down
by Smades87
Summary: My take on what happened in the hours following the missile strike on Camp Leigh. My first published story on here, so I apologize for any mistakes in formatting.
1. Chapter 1

Steve Rogers blinked, trying to clear his head. His eyes adjusted quickly to the blackness around him and jagged edges of reinforced concrete greeted him. Missle. He shook his head, willing the slow choppy thoughts of the percussion to disappear. He had to be able to think clearly, their lives depended on it.

Their. He shifted and winced. He was pinned and twisted to the right. His right hip on the ground, his left arm and shoulder up, still shielding their heads, now supporting the weight of layers of destroyed concrete.

Their. She was crumpled underneath him. He realized his hip wasnt on the ground, but jammed into her abdomen.

"Natasha?" Silence.

He shifted again, only able to move less than an inch, and rocked his shoulders until he was able to prop up on the heal of his hand. He used his feet, braced against the concrete ruin in front of them, and lifted his hip off her side. Carefully, but quickly, aware that precious moments were slipping by, he heaved his entire body weight into the shield. Once. Twice. Three times before the debris wall shifted. Another time before he was able to break through into the smokey night air.

He crouched over her, quick cat like reflexes for such a big man, checking for and finding a pulse, lightly feeling for broken bones, making note of any severe trauma. Satisfied it was safe to move her, like there was any other choice he reminded himself, he scooped her up and took off for the dense woods straight ahead. The smoke was thick and acrid and made for good cover. Still voices echoed in the distance. The ground team was closing in rapidly. Steve calculated SHIELD would cut off the south and east entrances to the Camp, expecting them to go out the way they had came in, or to be disoriented in the choas and run right at their trap. He adjusted on a northwestwardly track, satisfied it would give them the most time to escape, and ran as hard as he could. His arm wrapped tightly around Natasha's head, trying to keep it from bobbing with the impact of his strides.

* * *

"Stand up," The black shadow yelled at her. She tried, making it to her hands and knees. He kicked her. Pain, blinding pain coursed through her body. Red stabs of light filtered into her vision.

"Stand up," She couldn't see his face. She couldn't see anything, only pinpricks of red every time his boot connected with her side.

His voice, angry and mocking, pressed her down, "I said stand up. Or do I need to stand you up?" She couldn't find the strength to stand, to even try to stand. Her breath came in ragged wheezes, guttral chokes from deep within. The click of boots on concrete stopped in front of her face, toed at her chin. The shadow man crouched in front of her. This was it. This was her end. Strangely, she felt greatful. His fingers ran thickly through her hair, behind her ear, burrowing deeper. She waited for him to pull, yank her to her feet, stand her up to face...

"Natasha...come on Tasha, I need you to wake up. Come to me, follow my voice."

A familiar voice. Not the shadow man. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Soft hands. Steve. She blinked.

"Hey," his hand smoothed her hair away from her eyes, tucking it safely behind an ear, "you had me worried Nat. You've been out for awhile."

She looked around, taking in their surroundings. Trees. Dead leaves. The woods. Or the edge of the woods. A few houses sat off to their right. "Steve. Where..."

"About 2 hours from the camp. Do you remember anything at all?"

She nodded. A computer that knew their names. SHIELD. Hydra. The computer kept talking, stalling...

"And the missle," he finished. "Compliments of SHIELD. They had strike teams on the ground, but I managed to get us out. I took a northwest track to buy us some time."

"How did we get here?" Natasha rubbed her temple. The movement sent a tidal wave of pain rushing down her left side.

"I ran."

She looked at him. "Ran? How did I get here?"

"I carried you. Listen, I think you have a concussion, and two possible broken ribs. I'm going to get us out of here, but I need you to do exactly as I say okay? No questions Nat, we're going to borrow that gray car," he pointed to a bland looking Buick parked next to a darkened house, "We can't be out in the open that long and you can't move fast enough right now, so I'm going to carry you. And when I put you in the front seat I want you to stay as low as possible, head below the dash," his fingers gingerly brushed across her injured side, "or as low as you can get okay?" He waited, expecting her to disagree, but was suprised.

"Okay," she said simply.

But as he stooped to hoist her against his body he saw an emotion flash across her eyes he had never seen before. Fear.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I forgot to mention in the description this story contains spoilers if you haven't seen TWS yet. Also, I took some creative liberties with a scene from the movie and moved it to where I needed it. One, possibly two, more chapters before this is complete. Depending on how long winded I get.**

2

The sun was peeping over the horizon as they rolled back into DC. Natasha had done a mental assessment of her injuries and thought Steve's report had been fairly accurate. She was sure of the concussion, because nothing else could cause such a blinding headache. The ribs she decided, were probably only bruised. For a split second she allowed herself to relive the gentle brush of his finger tips over her midsection. So light and so quick, she thought she had imagined it. But the gentleness on his face had confirmed it, and the sincerity in his tone, combined with everything else, had rendered her speechless.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His demeanor was relaxed, but she could see the wheels turning in his mind. Assessing the nights events? Calculating the next move? Probably both. He was never at rest. Never. It was her favorite of all his qualities.

His eyes flicked sideways and caught her staring, "How's it going?"

"Just processing information. I assume you have a plan on how we are going to get safely back into DC when half the country is looking for us?"

A boyish grin broke out on his face, "Of course. I'm going to introduce you to one of my friends."

An eyebrown went up, "Steve Rogers has friends? I thought you said your barber shop quartet was dead?"

He chuckled, "Feeling better I see. They are. This is a new friend. Name is Sam. I see him at the park sometimes in the morning. He's a good guy, safe."

"And you realize that we are fugitives right? If he is caught sheltering us..."

His face clouded up. It was a neccesary risk, one he had calculated no doubt, but one that wasn't so easy to justify.

She softened her tone, "I'm not trying to kill your plan Steve, I just don't want..." Words failed her. They always did, the sincere ones at least. Her mind could spew an endless stream of witty sarcastic remarks at the drop of a hat, but go completely blank as soon as the conversation turned toward anything remotely emotional.

"I know what it means. There are no other moves though. We have to regroup. We have to plan," he hesitated, then rested a hand on her knee, "Natasha, I have to know you're okay."

His words collided with her like a speeding bullet and she jerked her knee from under his hand, recoiling at his touch, "Do you think I did this? That I drug you out to the middle of nowhere and set you up? That I'd add your name to my list of ki-"

"No," Steve cut her off in mid sentence and expertly weaved the Buick into the parking lot of a small strip mall. "No, I do not think that," He threw the car into park, more forcefully than he wanted, and turned to face her, "And quite frankly I'm insulted you thought it. I have to know you are healthy Natasha. Healthy. You were just unconscious for two hours, you've fidgeted in your seat the entire drive trying to get comfortable, you keep glancing at me out of the corner of your eye, you seem nervous." He exhaled sharply, letting his anger flow out, away from him, "That's not the Tasha I know," his tone was more calm, and he tucked a thumb under her chin, forcing her to look at him, "I care about you. I care about what you think, what you feel. That's all."

His eyes held hers, searching, finding the fear again, before it was carefully tucked away. He slid his hand just below her ear, his thumb gently tracing over a fresh scratch, "It's okay to be afraid Nat," he pulled her to him and brushed his lips against her forehead, "It's okay to ask for help."

She sunk her teeth down onto her bottom lip trying to fend off the rush of emotion surging through her. Head bent against his chin, she whispered into his chest, "If it were me, if your life was in my hands back there, would you trust me to save it?" She forced herself to meet his his calm blue eyes.

"I would now." A single tear slid down her cheek and he felt a pang in his heart. He had never witnessed the woman behind the iron clad Black Widow walls. "And now is all the matters Tasha." He leaned back to his seat, resisting the urge to wipe the tear, not wanting to push too hard and scare her back into her shell. Instead, he drove forward, merging back into traffic.

She wiped her eye with the back of her index finger and stared out the windshield, "I need time Steve."

He nodded and laid his hand back on her knee.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Final chapter of this fic. I hope to start working on a post TWS one soon. The pairing will be the same of course, because I am slightly obsessed. **

3

Dim light filtered around them again, only this time it was courtesy of Sam Wilson's shades. The bedroom Sam let them crash in was nice sized and had it's own bathroom. Steve had insisted immediately that Natasha take the full sized bed and elected to make himself a pallet on the floor. Above him, Steve could hear Natasha's faint and steady breaths, a sign she had given in to sleep. He sat up and leaned against the side of the bed, staring at the wall, his mind replaying images from the last twenty four hours. Her crumpled under him, the tenderness exposed in the car, the way her damp hair fell on her shoulders after a shower. He hadn't felt this way about a woman in seventy years. He sensed she felt something too, but was fighting so vailantly against it. The sheet rustled behind him and he felt her eyes sweep over him. She was so good at pretending.

"Not tired?" she asked.

"Not really. Just thinking."

"About?"

He paused, "Do you trust me Tasha?" He spoke softly, but to the wall, afraid if he looked at her he would never get the answers he wanted.

"Yes," her voice was only a whisper.

"And you realize that I trust you?" She said nothing, so he continued, "Trust is something that is earned. It's, it's not something that's owed, it's not a debt, it's a bond that connects two people. I earned your trust and you earned mine."

"I haven't done anything to earn your trust Steve," she finally replied.

He half chuckled, "You were by my side when I found out the entire organization I worked for, we worked for, was a corrupt snake pit. That earns my trust."

"Professionally it does."

"And personally it doesn't? Natasha is doesn't work that way," he did turn now. She was sitting in bed, knees tucked into her chest, arms wrapped around herself. She had never looked so beautiful and so vulnerable to him before.

Her chin dropped and rested on a knee, " When I was out earlier I was dreaming about a man. It's not the first time I've dreamed of him, but the dreams are always the same. I can't see him. I can't see the room I'm in. After a few times I figured I must have a blindfold on. When I do see something it's only flashes of red. Explosions of pain so bad my vision blurrs." A tear fell down her cheek, but Steve didn't move. Her voice was tender but her tone was defeated and he knew instinctively that he was the only person she had ever told this to. "He wants me to stand up, but won't let me. I try, he kicks me down. I try again, he kicks me again. Everytime I make it to the prone position he knocks me down. So I give up. There's always copper in my mouth, my face is sticky. I know I'm bleeding. So I quit trying. Then he grabs me, drags me by the hair to somewhere and throws me in a chair." She cast a glance at Steve, "And I know this happened to me, that it's not just a dream, it really happened. But I don't know when or where. I don't know why. All I know is I've repressed the memory so good I can't find it while conscious. And it's not the only one."

Steve sighed, "But we all have things we can't remember, don't want to remember. We can't change that."

She shook her head, "It's not the same. It's not just the memory I can't remember. I can't remember if I _deserved_ to be in that room blindfolded or not. Some of the things I've done..." her voice trailed off.

A click resonated through Steve's mind and he threw the last few pieces of the puzzle together. "You don't want me to trust you."

A full sixty seconds of silence rocked the small space before she spoke again, so low he actually had to strain to hear, "I don't. I don't because I care about you too Steve. I care what you think, what you feel, and it scares me. You make me want to give into you, to let you see everything, and it scares me. It scares me because I don't know what everything is anymore."

He shook his head, "I don't care about the past Nat. I don't care what everything is, all I care about is right now."

"How can you be so sure though?"

The tears broke and streamed freely down her face and he couldn't stand it anymore. He went to her, pulled her into his lap and held her tightly, "Because I've seen you. You're a good person who did some bad things. The world is full of them. You're haunted, obsessed with your past because of what you've done. But what you've done is not always who you are Natasha." And before Steve could stop his mouth was covering hers. Gently at first, then she responded, deepening the kiss, and he could feel all the pain, all the regret and sorrow, pour from her body. She broke the kiss to sob into his chest and he cradled her, rocking them gently. Seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour passed, and he held her, letting her tears soak the front of his shirt. Tears from the strongest woman he had ever met. When her cries stopped and were replaced by silence he ran his fingers through her hair, down her neck, softly massaging her shoulder.

"Nat?" He waited until her watery eyes met his, "Friends?"

She gave the smallest of smiles and nodded before her lips found his again.


End file.
